


We've not yet lost all our grace

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blood Drinking, Bottom!Sam, M/M, Minor Character Death, brothers raised apart, powers!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen years ago, Azazel burned Sam and Dean Winchester’s mother to the ceiling, whisking Sam out of his brother’s arms, raising him as Hell's champion. Now that he’s come of age, Sam must pass one final test before commanding Azazel’s armies. His task: kill Dean Winchester, the only hunter who can supposedly lay ruin to Sam’s destiny. But when Sam meets Dean in a grungy bar outside of Seattle, he feels the beginnings of an inexplicable bond with the hunter. And as their night together unravels, Sam realizes that everything he thought he knew about his life might be a lie…leaving Dean and him to pick up the pieces of their history in order to face the coming demon war together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **To the art:** [ Here! ](http://cassiopeia7.livejournal.com/454644.html)
> 
> **A/n:** Written as my entry for the Sam/Dean minibang challenge hosted at . Hugs go to AlexisJane: for her massive help with this fic, especially when I got stuck halfway through and had absolutely NO idea where to take it. And then for beta-ing it afterwards. And also to SleepyPercy: my dear for your help on the beta-front as well. I sooooo appreciate it. And of course MY ETERNAL LOVE AND GRATITUDE to the lovely, super talented Cassiopeia7 for all of her hard work, enthusiasm, and ridiculously talented drawings. I could not have been more delighted when you picked my story, bb!!! Go leave her ALL of your love, friends. She more than deserves it--I mean, just LOOK at how gorgeous Sam with yellow eyes is!! ♥ ♥ Lyrics throughout the fic are stolen for Lorde, the Eagles, and Rent.

  


**Prologue**

  
If there’s anything in the world that Sam should be doing right now, it’s sleeping. He’ll need all the strength he can muster for his test tomorrow. His test. _The test_. The one he’s been preparing for his whole life. The one that will prove to Azazel that he, above all others, is ready to take up his position at the frontline of the war. To fight, to conquer. He will face this challenge and he will win. Veni. Vidi. Vici. He repeats that mantra like a talisman. Hey, there’s power in positive thinking, right?

Tucked in his bed, Sam closes the curtains without moving. Practices squashing the life out of a spider scurrying across the floor with a tilt of his chin. Slides his hand down the front of his boxers to cup the ache in his groin that always sneaks in, curling up through his spine whenever he exerts his powers. Sometimes he spends whole days fighting off an ache that’s so primal and bone deep that he almost loses to the demons that Azazel throws at him. _Discipline_. That’s what Azazel tells him he needs in order to win. Sam likes Azazel, of course he does—even if he’s not Sam’s biological family, the demon saved him from burning alive—but during times like those Sam always bites back an urge to tell him exactly where to shove it. It’s not like Azazel has ever been an eighteen-year-old-boy stuck in a house full of demons and dusty books for company.

After nearly two decades, Azazel can practically read his mind (or maybe he can legitimately read minds, Sam’s never actually asked). So when the urge strikes Sam in just the wrong way, he’ll chuckle and tell Sam that when they’ve won the war, he can drown himself as many bodies as he wants—but he has to earn it first. Sam takes it in stride, bears down; focuses on destruction, rather than the creation that his body is trying to force out of his dick. It’s only in the dark of the night that he’s free to explore his pleasure. To touch and tug until he spurts in his hand, hot and desperate. Tonight he comes three times, his sheets a damp sticky mess before he’s calmed down. For now, he’ll sleep. And tomorrow when he wakes up, he will kill the only hunter that Azazel says can stop him from claiming his true destiny. Sam can feel it in his blood. In Azazel’s blood which has coursed through his own vasculature since before he had teeth. It’s what makes him smarter, faster, better than the other humans on this earth.

Tomorrow can get its fucking ass here already. Sam is ready. And he’s determined to succeed.

 **One**

  
It’s raining outside, a steady drizzle that sinks into one’s bones and Sam’s forced to stay inside, pacing back and forth in the house all day. He can’t sit still. He can’t sleep. He doesn’t even want to eat, although Azazel makes sure he drinks down his protein shake with added demon juice. Sam might rebel on occasion—sometimes he’s not in the mood to pick up the knife and slash, ok?—but Azazel’s blood has never been a choice. Sam craves it more than anything in the world. More than food, more than sex. It’s a nagging urge that’s always on his mind. His body needs it to survive; if he goes a day or two without it, he’s sick. And not like the flu, sick. Like full on can’t breathe, muscle-spasms and hallucinations sort of sick. Kind of like the DTs, Sam imagines, and those can kill a person. Sam’s never had the urge to abstain.

Right now, on the brink of his mission, he can’t risk so much as a cough, although Sam feels like he might lose that particular battle considering the air saturation. It’s probable that he’s breathing in pneumonia with every inhalation. They’re in a Seattle suburb (Bremerton? Bellevue? Some name with a ‘B’ that Sam can’t remember), and according to Azazel, his target, Dean, will have finished a hunt this evening. And that means that he’ll be at his weakest. Intoxicated off endorphins and alcohol. Alone. And with Azazel’s army starting to gather, they couldn’t ask for a more perfect opportunity.

The day shifts by as unremarkably as any other that’s been perceived by humankind; shadows eventually fall, and although each minute has been grueling and endless, before Sam knows it, he’s walking out the door. Each step seems to take an eternity; time is a confusing concept. People topside try to contain it. In minutes, hours, days, weeks, years. As if by quantifying the continuum, they’d somehow be able to harness its power. _How do you measure, a year in the life?_ People are stupid. Time is immeasurable; inconceivable to the human brain. Sam’s lucky he’s not held back by such constraints.

“You got this, kiddo,” Azazel tells him as they climb into the blue Prius they appropriated a few years back. Sam had sent its owner downstairs during a training session, and well, there’s always the need to save the environment. Sam may not have faith in the human race, but he does have a conscience. He’s always liked the earth, the feel of dirt through his fingers and the taste of sweet, homegrown cucumbers and tomatoes on his tongue.

“Of course I do, you trained me for this. You’ve given me the strength to win,” he responds calmly. He’s ready. Beyond ready, in fact, to put humans in their damn place, right where they belong—at the bottom of Sam’s concerns. And if he needs to kill one more human to do it…well, what’s the life of another ant worth anyways? The world won’t mourn his passing and neither will Sam.

Azazel reaches over and puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder. These days, it hardly fits around the muscle that Sam has grown, although Azazel tells him he’ll bulk out more in the coming years. After years of being lanky, of his bones practically poking out of his skin no matter how many calories he consumed, Sam can hardly imagine becoming more broad-shouldered than he already is.

When Sam gives him a dubious look, Azazel reminds him, “ _John Winchester was built like a grizzly bear_.” Most days, Sam tries not to think of the man who tried to burn him alive inside of their house. When he does, he’s filled with the need to hunt down and flay the skin off John Winchester (unfortunately, it’s usually the nearest living thing instead). The man was supposed to be his father; the man was supposed to protect him from the world’s evil. As it turned out, it wasn’t evil that Sam needed protecting from. It was his family. And one day soon, John Winchester will pay for his sins.

It doesn’t take them long before Azazel pulls into the parking lot of a run-down joint. They’re not too far from the docks and shipping yards. The bar itself boasts a red neon sign proclaiming ‘Styx and Stones’. It looks cheap, blue collar. Sam doesn’t have much faith in the food; he can smell grease from inside the car.

Sam makes a move to open the door when Azazel stops him, thick fingers circling the prominent bones of his wrist.

“Now that we’re here, let’s go over your game plan, Sammy.”

This is how it always goes. They never plan until the last possible minute. That way Sam’s not thrown if something doesn’t go his way. It’s made him good at improvising, quick on his feet.

“I was just going to go for the straightforward approach. Play a few games of pool. Kick the guy’s ass so to speak, before taking him out back and snapping his neck.”

“Not bad. But you need to remember that he’s a hunter. He’s not going to go down without a fight. He’ll definitely cause a _scene_. Draw unwanted attention to us. Actually, now that I think about it, you’d be more likely to succeed if Deano takes you back to his place, Sammy.”

Sam’s heart stops beating for a second before resuming its normal service. “You think I should go home with him?”

They’ve never talked about this before. Sam’s never really given much thought to whether he went in for guys or girls or both. But now that he thinks about it, of course this guy—Dean—would be most vulnerable after sex. Pliant, relaxed. He’d never see it coming, despite his years of experience. Azazel’s kind of a genius, and Sam loves that about him.

Azazel shrugs at Sam’s question. “Just a suggestion. Play it however you want. I’m betting on you though, Sammy. Don’t disappoint me.”

Sam swallows down a gulp. Disappointment means Dean kills him, rather than the other way around. He’s not planning to fail. “Do you know if he’s...into guys?”

This is by far the oddest conversation the two of them have ever had. And that includes the sex talk Azazel gave him after Sam had changed his bed sheets every morning for two weeks straight.

“Play your cards right, and I don’t think anyone could say ‘no’ to you. You’ve got more than one set of talents. Use them.”

“Alright.” Sam shakes his shoulders. Cracks his neck to each side. He’s got this. He pulls up his briefs a little higher until the waistband can be seen over the low sling of his pants, undoes the top few buttons of his black collared shirt, exposing tanned skin not yet marred by chest hair.

“Bite your lips,” Azazel orders him. “He’ll like that.”

Sam does it without questioning.

“Atta boy. Now go get him, Tiger. You know how to find me when you’re done.”

Sam’s known how to summon demons before most kids could write their names. Perks of demon blood; better nutrition for the brain.

“I’ll be home for breakfast,” he says flashing a grin to Azazel, whose eyes are glowing yellow in the dim light of the parking lot.

\--

 

The bar is exactly what Sam expects when he steps inside: poor lighting, pool tables, and the smell of sweat mixed with alcohol. Sam has to repress the urge to vomit. He looks around the room, through bodies of (mostly) overweight men and women, demolishing deep fried food and pitchers of beer. Sam thinks of the lab rats who kept pushing the pleasure button until they died of starvation. But in an opposite sort of way.

He takes his time and orders the cheapest beer at the bar. It tastes exactly how it looks—like watered-down piss. In this crowd, it’s easy to spot Dean. Although his worn clothes and rough language fit right in, he’s far too pretty, far too young to be here.

Show time.

Sam rests his elbows and the curve of his spine against the bar, casually angling his pelvis out, just the hint of flat stomach peeking out where his shirt rides up. He drinks (reluctantly), and watches. He sees how Dean casually flirts, rubbing his hand up and down the cue stick. Dean starts the game by purposefully throwing a few shots, licks his lips in a way that makes the older men miss shots that they’ve been nailing for decades. Then, one striped ball after the other, Dean takes them all out, calling the left pocket on the Eight ball before the guys have a chance to force enough blood back into their brains to realize they’ve been played.

Once he’s won, Dean grabs the stack of bills on the corner and spares a touch and a smile before leaving the table. Giving away just enough of himself that none of the guys will come after him. At least not for their money. Sam smirks, wondering which of those poor schmucks actually thinks he has a chance with Dean later. Unless any of them care to waste their life savings on a blow job, not a single one looks like he could afford Dean. If Dean cared to sell, that is. Sam would put money down that he has in the past. He can practically see it in Dean’s hardened eyes.

Sam puts on his brightest smile as Dean saunters towards him, bowed legs splaying obscenely with each step. For a moment, Sam’s worried that Dean’s going to walk straight through him, but he stops short of his collision course, his whole body in Sam’s space. Crowding Sam back against the bar before he slides his hand across Sam’s exposed strip of skin and hooks a finger into the waist of his briefs. Sam’s muscles feel like they’re trying to actively jump out of his skin. He’s practically vibrating.

“You’ve been watching me,” Dean growls. Low enough that his voice is for Sam’s ears alone.

“Hard not to watch you flirt your way through robbing a bunch of men old enough to be your father.”

Dean shrugs. “Their loss. Besides, I never offered anything besides a game of pool for a few bucks. They didn’t want to lose it, they shouldn’t have played.”

He stops to order a shot from the bar and quickly downs it before giving Sam an appraising look. “So what’s your deal anyways? I’ve never seen you here before. Sure you’re old enough to drink?”

Sam’s not. Not legally anyways, but he’s tall and his fake ID goes a long way. So does crushing the air out of any bartender who tries to deny him.

Sam attempts to act like he’s not the most powerful thing in this bar right now. He bites on his bottom lip and looks up at Dean from underneath his eyelashes. Leans back on his elbows so he appears to be a few inches shorter than Dean.

“I’m old enough for a lot of things.”

That makes Dean snort, and for a second Sam thinks his charade is up before Dean pulls him forward until his lips are pressed against Sam’s ear.

“Alright. Stop teasing. How much?”

Sam flushes with the implication. He is, of course, trying to sell his body, so to speak. But less for money, and more for Dean’s life and soul. Which makes telling the truth not the best option right now. He decides that this Sam, the one he’s pretending to be anyways, would probably be offended.

“Excuse me?” he asks, putting a few inches of air between them.

Dean removes his hands quickly and laughs. It’s that awkward kind of laugh when there’s nothing else to fill the silence.

“Sorry dude. It’s just with your clothes and the way you were looking at me, I thought…well, never mind. Have a good night, man.”

Sam stops him before he can take off. “No, you’re right. I was looking. And definitely impressed with what I saw. It’s just, I’m not selling. I’m not…you know. A hooker. Just a guy looking for a drink and some company.”

It doesn’t make Dean relax the way that Sam thought it would—who the fuck tenses up when they hear they’re getting for free what they were going to pay for anyways? Probably someone who’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. A hunter. Right. Sam almost forgot for a second. He can’t afford to forget. Not with everything that’s on the line.

“Alright. I got a few ground rules though.”

Sam nods, listening, and Dean continues, “Just ‘cause I’m pretty doesn’t mean I like it up the ass, got it?”

He can work with that. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I’m not looking for anything besides some stress relief. And to be clear, that means you on your knees blowing me.”

Sam runs his hand down Dean’s worn grey t-shirt. It comes to a rest on Dean’s hip with his thumb rubbing over the prominent crest in the bone, and when Dean presses forward into his touch, Sam can definitely feel something long and hard pressing into his thigh. He’s at least seventy-percent sure that it isn’t a knife or a gun.

“So, what do I get out of it?”

“Oh sweetheart, don’t you worry. My partners are never left…unsatisfied.”

Sam pretends to think it over before saying, “Ok, then. Your place.”

“I assure you, yours is nicer than the rat-infested motel where I’m staying. I swear, with all the stains on the sheets you’d think the place had never heard of bleach.”

The description makes Sam cringe, but he rubs his crotch against Dean’s jean covered thigh, enjoying the friction as his dick finally starts to take note of the body in front of him. About damn time too, otherwise Dean might start to question his real motives.

“Well. Actually, all I’ve got is a Prius—“ Dean cringes at the mention of his car. Pointedly ignoring Dean’s pained expression, Sam plows on with his sentence. “Anyways, as I was saying. I didn’t have the money for a room, and I don’t think we’ll both fit in the backseat…honestly, if I wasn’t so flexible, I wouldn’t fit either…”

Dean raises his eyebrows at the word ‘flexibility’, but mumbles something about “why the hot ones never have good taste in cars.” Sam ignores him and grabs his hand to lead him out of the bar. For a split second, Dean flinches when Sam’s fingers interlock with his, but Sam only grips harder.

It’s not until they’re outside that Dean extracts his hand and makes a fuss. “What the fuck was that? We’re grown men. Not five-year-olds having a tea party. Holding hands wasn’t up for negotiation.”

“That was me showing everyone in the bar _exactly_ who you were taking home. That you’re so out of their league it’s not even funny.” It’s the truth. Sam can appreciate beauty, and Dean’s got it in spades.

Dean rubs the back of his neck nervously, so Sam tries again. “Look, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I know that you’re the one calling the shots here…”

“Damn right I am,” Dean says before backing Sam up against his black muscle car, pushing on Sam’s shoulders until he gets the message and drops to knees, joints catching painfully on the gravel, “and luckily for you, I know exactly how you can make it up to me.”

Even in the dark, Sam can see the clear outline of Dean’s dick, hard and pressing against the fabric of his jeans. So thick that he can make out the ridge that separates the head from the shaft. Almost of its own accord, Sam’s hand reaches up and touches Dean’s cock, tracing the outline before gently pressing his thumb against the head. The movement causes Dean to thrust his hips forward, effectively trapping Sam between the Impala and his dick.

“Go on, take it out,” Dean encourages after a moment, carding his hand through Sam’s hair. For as much as Sam knows about the world, and as strong as his powers are, he’s grateful at this moment for Dean’s obvious experience. ‘Cause he’s seriously lacking in sex knowledge that doesn’t involve a computer or his right hand.

Sam unbuckles Dean’s belt, pops the buttons on his fly, one by one. He soaks in the groan of pleasure that Dean releases when he reaches inside the slit of Dean’s briefs and takes out his dick. He starts jacking it slowly, watching as Dean’s foreskin slides up and covers the head of his cock before dropping back down. It doesn’t take long, only a few more pumps of his hand, before Dean’s telling him to open wide and guiding his cock inside.

At first, Dean doesn’t go fast. Instead, he makes slow stabs with his hips, pushing up against the roof of Sam’s mouth before pulling out and starting over. Sam holds still and lets Dean fuck his mouth. Trying his best to make sure his teeth don’t get in the way and occasionally licking at Dean’s dick as it starts to move faster and go in deeper, almost reaching the back of his mouth now.

Dean leans down and fingers where his dick is stretching Sam’s lips. Sam leans in to the touch, hums in approval which leads Dean to fuck his face with more enthusiasm than before.

“You gonna be a good boy and swallow for me?” he asks, voice low enough that Sam can hardly make it out.

With his mouth full, Sam can’t properly respond, but he vibrates his vocal chords again, trying to relax his throat as Dean makes brutal thrusts, shoving his dick farther into Sam’s mouth. It doesn’t even seem like it should be possible. He chokes a bit, tries to breathe with his nose, but even that doesn’t work because Dean’s cock is cutting off his air supply. Sam blinks his eyes and tries not to gag as he remains helpless on his knees. Luckily, Dean doesn’t drag it out. He holds Sam’s head still as he comes down his throat, far too deep for Sam to taste anything besides the pre-come that’s already invaded his taste buds. Once he’s finished, Dean’s hips circle in a soft rocking motion until Dean pulls his softening cock out completely.

Sam falls back against the car immediately; half-choking, half-gasping for air. The back of his throat burns, and he wonders if he’ll still have the phantom feel of Dean’s cock inside of him long after Dean is dead.

When he finally gets enough strength back in his body to focus on something besides his sore throat, he looks at Dean only to find that he’s zipped himself up and is leaning against the car parked beside his Impala, arms and legs crossed.

  
“Neglect to tell me something there, kiddo?”

“No.”

“Hm. ‘Cause I think you did. Like maybe it was your first time sucking a dick?”

Sam blushes. Although he’s pretty sure that Dean can’t see it in the dark. He’d been hoping that Dean would be relaxed, calm after coming. Not even more reserved and judgmental.

“So?” Ok, maybe he’s a bit petulant. But really—Dean had come down his throat, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

“So. Did you stop to think that maybe I don’t want to spend my last night in town being slow and gentle? I said I wanted stress relief; I didn’t bargain for buying you roses and popping your cherry.”

Sam meets Dean’s challenge head on. For some reason it gets under his skin, makes his hackles bristle. It makes him want to show Dean up, make him take Sam seriously. “You don’t have to be such a jerk. Besides. Who said I wanted it slow and gentle?”

Dean lets out an unamused laugh. “Trust me kid, you don’t want hard and fast for your first time. That’ll only end with you in the hospital pumped full of painkillers and antibiotics.” He stops for a moment, clearly avoiding a more in-depth version of that personal gem before continuing in a softer voice, “I don’t think we actually got introduced. I’m Dean, by the way. What’s your name?”

Sam draws his knees up to his chest and folds his long arms around them. Trying to look vulnerable in the hopes that Dean will still bring him home. If not, he’ll be forced into a full-on showdown in the parking lot, and Sam would prefer to draw as little attention as possible. When he finally gets noticed on the world stage, he’d prefer for it to be with a roar, not the whimper he’s sure to pull out of Dean before the end.

“Sam. My name is Sam.”

For some reason, unfathomable as deep space or quantum mechanics, that makes Dean shake his head and smile. “Alright, Sammy.”

“Sam.”

“Fine. Alright, Sam. Get in the car.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, really. I won’t leave you to drown in your goddamn Prius before the night’s over. But I’ve got two rules. The first is no complaining about my music, and second—I’m dropping you back here first thing in the morning. Got it?”

“Absolutely,” Sam says, as he opens the heavy metal door and slides in. He stretches his legs, testing out the space this car affords him. It’s rather nice, comfortable even. Sam thinks that he could get used to it—sitting in the passenger seat, a big front view and Dean at his side. When Dean starts the ignition, music blares out of the speakers. It’s screaming to Sam’s ears, but he already promised not to complain, and he’s not going to retract his word. There’s still a mission at stake here.

Once they’re on the road, Dean reaches over to lay a hand high on the inside of Sam’s thigh. His thumb skims over the inseam, making blood rush to Sam’s groin. It’s a tingling sensation, the feeling of every nerve ending he has standing on end. Sam’s never felt so in tune to another human before, as if his whole existence right depends on the movement of Dean’s hand.

A shudder runs through his body and Dean looks over, concerned. Never, not in his eighteen years of life has Sam ever been on the receiving end of such a look. Praise? Yes. Anger? Yes. But concern? That’s a new one for Sam. It does funny things to his insides. It feels like a case of indigestion and an irregular heartbeat all at once. Like his internal organs might be too big for his body. Like he’s just swallowed a gallon of demon blood and his whole body is juiced—except that instead of killing, he wants to fuck. He wants to put his hands—his mouth—everywhere on Dean’s body. To have Dean show him how good it feels to have their bodies joined together like the hot, sticky puzzle pieces that they are.

Sam takes his chances and slides his fingers against Dean’s. Interlocking their fingers for the second time this evening. Dean raises his eyebrows, but when Sam gives him a smile—a full-out, dimpled smile and squeezes their sweaty fingers together—Dean smiles back at him.

“You’re fucking irresistible, you know that?”

Sam looks down at where their hands are joined. Despite the fact that his hand dwarfs Dean’s, he feels small. Vulnerable. Like he’s giving Dean a part of himself that he didn’t even know was up for grabs. Which is bad, really bad, because he’s only supposed to be acting, pretending that he wants Dean to fuck him, but somehow, somewhere in between the beer, and handholding, and Dean’s cock shoved down his throat with rocks digging into his jeans, he’s seemed to develop _feelings_. Very human feelings. Ones that Sam never even dreamed were possible to have.

“Yeah?” he asks, just the hint of a break in his voice.

“Mhm,” Dean hums before putting his voice to the music, _just remember, this my girl, when you look up in the sky, you can see the stars but still not see the light…_

It might just be the best sound that Sam’s ever heard.

 

  
[Back to the Masterpost on LJ](http://ephermeralk.livejournal.com/47077.html) |


	2. Chapter 2

  


**Two**

  
As it turns out, the motel was exactly what Dean had promised. The neon sign doesn’t light up completely, the doors open to the outside, and Sam sees at least three obvious hookers in the parking lot. Dean digs into his pocket for the key and jimmies it into the lock until it turns, opening the door to a poorly decorated interior with sparse furniture. There’s also a line of salt at the door. It’s the first real sign that Dean’s a hunter. It shocks Sam back to reality.

When Sam raises his eyebrows, asking Dean without words why he’s got _salt_ in the doorway, he just shrugs and says, “Family superstitions. Hard to break.” It’s an easy cover, and Sam supposes Dean’s had years to perfect all of his lies.

Sam crosses the barrier, noticing the tension that slides out of Dean’s shoulders as Sam steps inside.

“Alright, make yourself at home. I’ll be out in a second.”

The bathroom door closes, and Sam takes a moment to search around. There’s not much in the room—only a single duffle bag lying next to the bed. Upon closer examination the bag contains what appears to be Dean’s few possessions: a variety of weapons, a laptop, and a couple changes of clothes. Rooting around also yields a few pictures hidden towards the bottom. Sam can recognize Dean, even as a kid (it’s the freckles and the big green eyes that give him away), sitting on what appears to be his dad’s shoulders. His mom is standing next to them, a baby in her arms. Sam wonders what Dean’s life was like, growing up with a family. With a mom and dad who cared for him, a baby brother or sister to look after. A normal, apple-pie life. He wonders how Dean got from there to hunting, and picking up male prostitutes.

“What are you doing?” Dean’s voice is right behind him. He doesn’t sound pleased. Not at all.

Sam looks over his shoulder and gives Dean a reassuring smile. “This looks nice. Nicer than my childhood anyways.”

“Put it down,” Dean says, still unamused, but less like he’s going to order Sam out the door. “And don’t touch my shit again.”

Sam lets the photo drop on top of Dean’s duffle before following him to the table. From the counter (the room doesn’t even have a fridge), Dean grabs two plastic cups and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He pours a few fingers worth into both cups before taking out a flask and adding a drop of clear fluid to it.

“Water. All you need is a splash to really make the taste bloom. Here. Have a drink.”

Sam’s never had anything more than beer before, never had the desire to go out drinking, even if Azazel had offered it, and he almost says ‘no’. It’s the narrowing of Dean’s eyes that makes him reconsider. All of a sudden, Sam understands the appeal of charisma. And the desire to put a smile on Dean’s face.

_Ok_ is the only acceptable answer here, so Sam says it because it’s expected. He feels Dean’s eyes on him as he takes his first drink. Feels his mouth catch fire as the alcohol seeps into his body. Feels his throat burn even hotter than when Dean had fucked it earlier. The after taste is all oak and bitterness, and Sam grimaces as it goes down. It leaves his mouth numb and tingling; that must have been holy water that Dean had dropped inside. Azazel had given it to him on occasion over the years. Testing his reaction to anti-demonic weapons. Sometimes Sam got a numb mouth, others a sick stomach if he drank too much. Some days, it went down just as smooth as the filtered, non-blessed variety. So the mouth tingling? That’s nothing Sam can’t handle.

Before he’s through choking on his second gulp, Dean’s there, thumping his back with the enthusiasm of a proud parent and giving him a wide smile. Sam’s passed both of his tests; he’s got just enough human in him still to slide on through.

“A lot of firsts for you tonight, huh kid?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, trying not to sound dejected. Being with Dean, even for these few hours, has made Sam start to realize just how many experiences he’s missed out on. All the things he’d like to try. All the emotions he wants to feel. “But I plan on fixing all of that with you.”

Sam downs the rest of his whiskey and throws his cup on the floor before walking over to straddle Dean’s lap. He moves his hips in a clear indication of what he wants to do. “That is, if you’d be so kind as to oblige.”

He leans back to grab Dean’s cup and presses the edge against Dean’s lips. As Dean swallows every last drop, Sam trails his fingers over Dean’s throat. Feels all of it slide right on down, into Dean.

“I was actually hoping you might settle for some Casa Erotica and a blow job…” Dean tries to bargain.

Sam rocks his hips down into Dean’s, effectively cutting off his argument. “No. I want you to fuck me.”

“You sure? First times aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Mostly a little painful and awkward as hell. They’re better if you’re with someone you trust, not a one-night stand.”

“I trust you.” It’s strange, but when Sam says it, he actually believes it. Down to his core. Well, maybe he wouldn’t stake his soul on it, but anything short of that, absolutely. Dean is good. Dean is trustworthy. Underneath his rough exterior, Dean actually _cares_. Oddly enough, even about him, considering they met less than two hours ago.

Dean laughs against Sam’s lips. “Trust me? You don’t even know me, Sammy. Don’t know who I am, the things I’ve done…”

_Nothing half as bad as what I’m going to do_ , Sam thinks as his mouth meets Dean’s. But as the minutes go by, kissing until they’re both out of breath, Sam realizes this was a bad plan. He might have demon blood in him, but he’s still human. Way too damn human. And it feels…good. So screw Azazel and his mission tonight. Screw destiny. Sam doesn’t want to focus on anything besides getting Dean’s body in his. He’s put this off for far too long, and now that the moment’s here, Sam finds he’s anything but nervous.

“Don’t care about whatever it is you think you’ve done,” he says, breaking away from Dean’s mouth long enough to unbutton his shirt, sliding his hands under Dean’s t-shirt. His fingers skate over firm muscles, over skin barely disguising prominent ribs, before circling around Dean’s nipples. Sam can’t help but pinch them, coaxing them into erection. It makes Dean hiss. Pain mixed with pleasure. Sam finds he likes the sound.

“Easy there, Sammy. Gentle on the goods.”

“What if I _want_ you to feel me?”

“Kinky fucker. Don’t you worry, I’m feeling plenty.” He lightly smacks Sam’s ass, “Now, why don’t you go make yourself comfortable on the bed.”

Sam reluctantly removes himself from Dean’s lap, proceeding to strip out of his socks and boots. He slides his pants down to the floor but leaves his briefs on, even though his dick is aching to be set free. Still, it’s the first time that anyone’s going to really _see_ Sam. All of him. And for the moment, he feels marginally more comfortable with one last barrier between him and Dean. Rationally, he knows they’ll have to come off.

It doesn’t take long before Dean joins him, all of his clothes stripped. His cock isn’t fully hard yet, but it’s making a definite effort, and he throws a bottle of lube and a condom onto the bed.

Sam lets him keep the lube, but throws the unused condom in the trash.

“No.”

“Did you miss sex ed or something? Keep it wrapped up is lesson number one, and I don’t have any desire to end up with a rash on my dick.”

“C’mon, Dean,” he says softly. “I’ve never had sex with anyone. As you noticed, I’d never even _touched_ a dick that wasn’t mine until I blew you. So if there’s anyone who’s got a right to be worried it’s me. But I’m not, because I know you’ve always used one. So, no. You’re not going to with me.”

Sam puts just the hint of persuasion in his voice. Not enough to make Dean’s already active hunter sense tingle, but enough to make him reconsider. Sam takes the moment of uncertainty to run his hands up Dean’s biceps before pulling him down for a kiss.

“Please?”

“God knows there’s every reason in the book that I shouldn’t, but alright. Don’t know why, but you make me stupid, Kid.”

“Sam.”

“Sammy,” Dean amends, halting any of Sam’s protestations with his lips. He’s slow and gentle, licking his way into Sam’s mouth, and Sam feels his blood rushing to his lips, his hands, his dick. Everywhere besides his brain. It doesn’t take long before he’s spreading his legs as far as they’ll go and asking Dean for more.

“Yeah?” Deans asks him. “You want my cock, Sam? Want to know what it’s like to be filled with a Winchester dick up your ass?”

Sam freezes. Winchester. Just like Sam’s father. But no. Of course not. There’s no way that Dean could be his brother. Sam doesn’t have an older brother, otherwise Azazel would have saved him too. Sam would know that. And Azazel wouldn’t have sent him on a mission to fuck and kill his brother. Right? It’s a coincidence. It’s got to be. There are probably hundreds—thousands even—of Winchester’s in the United States.

By the time Sam’s processed the fact that it’s unlikely that Dean is related to him at all (maybe a distant cousin, but that’s totally fine), Dean’s backed off, sitting on his heels and biting his bottom lip.

“Sam? Are you okay? I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just goddamn lying there with your pink cheeks and spread legs, and my mouth ran off…”

“No. It wasn’t that. Your last name just caught me off guard—that’s all. I…I had a bad experience with a Winchester, once.” He leans forward and pulls on Dean’s hips until once again their bodies are pressed together, and Sam wraps his feet around Dean’s ankles, effectively trapping him. Making sure he won’t be able to get away this time.

“Hmm,” Dean murmurs, “well, I bet I could change your mind on the Winchester name, sweetheart.”

“Wanna bet?”

“What’s the wager?”

“Your soul.” Alright. Sam might be feeling the alcohol here, but he’d also kind of like Dean to live. He doesn’t want to stop touching every part of Dean’s skin, or have Dean stop touching him—preferably ever.

Dean stops sucking on his collar bone. “Dude. Not funny.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, even though he isn’t. Not at all. In fact, he was dead serious. Still is. He plays innocent, for the moment being. “Are you super religious or something?”

“Let’s just say I have a healthy respect for the unexplainable mysteries of life.”

“Huh.”

Dean exhales against his skin and then presses his ear against Sam’s chest. Just sits and listens to his heartbeat. _Lub-dub, lub-dub_. Over and over, until Sam’s worried that Dean is asleep.

“Hey,” he says shaking Dean. “Are we gonna?”

Sam can feel Dean’s lips turn up against his chest; a full on smirk. “You shouldn’t be doing it, if you can’t say it.”

Sam blushes and looks down to where Dean’s cock is rubbing up against his own, still clothed one. Sam can do this. It’s just three little words.

“Please fuck me.”

Dean practically purrs. “Take your underwear off. I wanna see you touch yourself first.”

Sam scrambles out of his briefs as fast as possible, legs going absolutely everywhere on the bed. When he finally gets a hand on his cock, Dean’s eyes are laser focused between his legs and he feels positively slutty, in the best sense of the word possible. Seriously, he’s never felt this turned on in his life, didn’t even know it was possible for his dick to get as hard as it is for Dean. He’d do just about anything to get Dean’s cock inside of him. To shed his virginity and understand what it feels like to have someone else’s body inside of his. So, yeah. Slutty seems like a pretty accurate description of his current state.

With Dean watching it’s hard for Sam to go slowly and enjoy the moment, but soon enough Dean’s hand is between his legs, pushing up his balls to expose his ass. Sam tilts his hips so that Dean has better access. Dean’s finger, slick with lube, is not what Sam expects when he pushes it inside. There’s no pain, no awkwardness, only a desire for more of Dean, and when Sam says so, Dean laughs, amused.

It doesn’t take them long to get up to three fingers. Dean’s impressed. He tells Sam that.

“Sweet Jesus. It’s like you were made to take a dick. Don’t know how you’ve lived so long without one in your pretty little hole.”

“C’mon, Dean. Stick it in. Please?” Sam whines, and Dean appeases him by nuzzling into his neck.

“Slutty for my cock _and_ good at begging. I might just have to keep you.”

“Please?” Sam whines again, and luckily Dean seems just as far gone as he is, because this time, he lines up his dick and pushes in.

Oh. _Oh_.

Dean takes his time pushing past the rim of Sam’s hole, but once he’s got the head of his dick in, Sam wants it all. And Dean’s going too slowly. Sam gets that Dean doesn’t want to hurt him, but seriously. The guy’s not even halfway in; he’s got to be pushing in by freaking millimeters. It’s border-line ridiculous.

“Thought you were going to fuck me?” he goads Dean.

Dean doesn’t disappoint. He slams all the way in, almost aiming to hurt, trying to teach Sam a lesson. He doesn’t even come close.

“That better?” Dean asks, sarcasm dripping of both words. Sam responds the only way he knows how; he spreads his legs even wider.

“Oh, hell yeah. Just like that.”

“You sure you’re a virgin?” Dean asks in between thrusts.

Sam pushes up into Dean’s hips every time. This right here? Being on his back with Dean pounding him into the bed with his dick. This is perfect. He doesn’t want Dean to stop fucking him. Preferably ever. Dean smells, Dean feels, Dean fucking tastes like a missing part of Sam. And now that he’s had him, Sam’s unsure if he wants live without him.

He owes Azazel a lot, but not this. Not the sheer wonder of Dean wanting him. Of Dean touching him in places he didn’t know existed. Sam’s pretty sure that Dean is one of a kind; he’s not replaceable.

“Harder,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s hips and slamming them against his own. Dean’s cock is hitting a place inside of him that makes him practically black out with pleasure, and it’s not long before he comes, wet and messy, all over his stomach.

He relaxes immediately, becoming pliant as he waits for Dean to finish. Giving himself over to Dean completely. Every inch of him, inside and out. Sam wishes he could feel Dean coming, but he can’t. Instead, he takes Dean’s other body signs—the tightening of his stomach, the twitching of his thighs, the way Dean collapses on top of him, softly sucking on his neck—as a cue that Dean’s come too.

Eventually (way too soon), Dean pulls out, and manhandles Sam until he’s spooned against Dean. Sam wiggles back against Dean, trying to entice his soft cock into another erection.

“You’re insatiable.”

“What can I say, you’ve got a nice dick.”

“Does that mean I’ve reclaimed the Winchester good name then?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

Dean’s hand is curled around him, thumb skating over his ribs. Sam wonders if he and Dean share something special, or if sex is like this for everyone. What if there’s more to life than crusading against humanity for its sins? What if there’s sex and love too? What if—maybe—instead of annihilation, humanity might just need saving instead. Sam included.

“Love this,” he says, snuggling deeper into Dean’s body.

Dean stops petting him. “Excuse me?”

“I love this. You. The sex. All of it. I didn’t think that I would…but I do.”

“Awesome. Just awesome.” Dean’s voice is rough. Tinged with sarcasm. “Did you block out the part where I said I was hitting the road tomorrow? That this was supposed to be stress relief, no strings attached?”

“No, of course not. I got that loud and clear. I was just thinking out loud. That’s all. I never thought I’d love another human.”

“Look. You’re cute, and the sex was good, sure. But I don’t love you. And if there was some miscommunication here, I apologize for that. So why don’t you take the room, and I’ll sleep in Baby for the night…” Dean scrambles out of bed and grabs his boxers. He’s in such a hurry that he misses putting his foot in the right hole and trips, falling onto the floor.

Sam giggles from his vantage point on the bed. Dean’s not going anywhere, even though he doesn’t know it yet. He’s not leaving without Sam, one way or another. Alive or not. The verdict’s apparently in the air on that one.

“Baby?” Sam questions. He rolls over on his stomach, legs kicking lazily in the air as he watches Dean put all of his layers back on. Really, Dean should never be allowed to put on clothes. He should also get his ass back in bed, ‘cause Sam’s just about ready for round two.

“Yeah. The Impala. She’s my girl.” Dean takes a moment to find the keys. “Er. Ok then, I’ll be back first thing in the morning to grab the key before I check out, then I’m dropping you back at the bar. So. Uh. Sleep well,” Dean says as he turns the door handle.

It doesn’t budge, and Sam smiles.

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you’re not leaving. I don’t want you to.”

Dean tries for the door again, but it stays locked. Sam can practically watch Dean make the connection in his brain before Dean makes a slow turn, his gun pointed directly at Sam’s heart.

“Now, I watched you step over the salt and drink the holy water. So what are you, then? A witch? A shifter?”

“You’re pretty hot when you’re mad,” Sam remarks casually. He flicks his hand and Dean’s gun skitters to the floor, coming to a stop at the bottom of the bed. Dean makes as if to follow it, but Sam’s not ready for him to move yet. He holds out his arm and Dean can’t take another step unless Sam decides to release him.

“I don’t think I said you could move yet.”

“Didn’t know I needed your permission…Sam, if that even is your name.”

“I actually haven’t lied about anything, Dean. And for your information, I am human…mostly. Think of me more like Superman. Genetically superior.” He smirks.

“Mostly human? There is no such thing as _mostly_. You’re either human or you’re not.”

“The world’s not black and white, no matter how much you wish it was. And I’m sure some of the supernatural creatures that you’ve killed were more innocent that then people you saved.”

“You don’t know shit,” Dean rasps. Sam’s given him just enough oxygen to speak if he really puts some effort into it. “I save people, just like my dad does. And we’ll get every one of you Supernatural freaks or die trying.”

“How precious. A family business. Well, let me tell you a little something about human families, Dean. My supposed ‘father’, and yes, before you ask _he was human_ , set his house on fire. Purposefully. With me inside. I was only a baby—there was nothing I could do. And believe me, if a demon hadn’t saved me, if he hadn’t pulled me out of the fire, I wouldn’t be here right now. I was sent here to kill you, Dean—so that I can take my place at that demon’s side. And for a moment there, you had me reconsidering. But after that nice speech you gave me…you know what? I think your luck’s just run out.”

Sam tilts his head, trying to understand why Dean’s suddenly stopped struggling. He relaxes his hold on Dean just a little bit, enough so that he can watch him try to make a run for it. Because Dean’s always been the mouse in the scheme of things, despite what he must have thought from the moment he picked Sam up at the bar.

“Now’s the part where you try to get away,” he says helpfully, even though Dean’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head. He checks, just in case. “Because I’m about to squash the life out of you and bring your heart to my _true_ father on a silver platter.”

“Sam…” Dean says slowly, “do you know who your biological father was?”

“Yeah. A fucking low-life human by the name of John Winchester. Why? You know him? Because if you lead me to him, I’m happy to hold out on killing you—for another day or two. I definitely owe daddy-dearest a visit.”

Dean uses all his power to sink to the ground, muttering, “No, no, no, no…it can’t be. You can’t be…”

“Who exactly am I not supposed to be?”

“Sam. You’re—you’re my brother. The one I’ve been searching my whole life for. I pulled you out of the fire, Sammy. Not a demon. Me. _Me_. And then I failed you, because when yellow-eyes asked for you, I let go. You were a baby, and he took you from me. It’s my fault. It’s always been my fault.”

It takes Sam a moment for his brain to catch up with Dean's words. It chooses denial as it's coping mechanism of choice. “You’re wrong. I don’t have a brother. Azazel’s my family. Besides, two seconds ago you wanted to kill me. And what? Now we’re long lost brothers? I don’t buy it.”

“Azazel?”

“Yeah, I guess you call him yellow-eyes. But his name’s Azazel, and he’s taken care of me.”

Dean coughs. “Brainwashed you.”

“Taught me about the world. About all the horrible things you humans do the planet, to _each other_ even.”

“Yeah, well. You still want to kill me, so I’m pretty sure that makes you equally culpable.”

“Touché.”

“Maybe, but Sam. You’ve got to listen to me here. You’ve been lied to by a demon. And sure, humans might do bad things, but demons do worse. Trust me, it wasn’t Dad who started that fire. He was downstairs watching T.V. when yellow-eyes, your demon pal, came into your nursery and burned our mom against the ceiling. _He_ was the one who burned our house down. Not Dad. Our father, oh Jesus, we just fucked, and now I’m saying ‘our’ father…well he’s not perfect. But thanks to losing Mom and you, he’s spent the last eighteen years hell-bent on revenge, only stopping on occasion for an alcohol bender. And that picture you saw earlier? That’s one of my best memories, Sam. After that, my life went to shit. I grew up making myself toaster pastries and faking Dad’s signature on permission slips. I should have been getting the crusts cut off my PB &J’s and stealing your prom dates.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. Dean’s fucking with his brain. This is so not where he saw the night going. Sam has a brother. _A brother_. Sam has a fucking hot brother with a nice cock, and right now Sam couldn’t care less that they’re related. If they’ve decided not to kill each other, they should definitely fuck again. And soon. But first, he’s got a few more questions.

“It doesn’t make sense though, Dean. Why would Azazel take me and leave you? Why would he not tell me I had a brother? And why would he send me to kill you? I don’t understand…”

“I don’t know. There’s lots I don’t know. But before we both try to kill each other here, I think we both need some answers. Whaddya say? Truce?”

Sam takes a moment to ponder Dean’s cease-fire. It’s not like the offer is binding. Nothing is ever irrevocable unless it’s born out of blood or soul magic. So yeah. If Sam finds out that Dean’s lying, or if the cards shift the other way—well, Sam’s not tied down. And as interesting as leading Azazel’s armies might be…that can wait. It’s not like they’re escaping Hell any time soon.

Sam’s going to think of this like his Rumspringa. Ply himself with all the sex and booze he can handle before he makes a final decision.

“Alright. Truce. But where exactly do you think those answers are going to come from, Dean? I may be _psychic_ , but I’m not that kind of psychic.”

“Lucky for us, I’ve got a girl we could go see—out in the Midwest. Her name’s Pam and she’s the real deal. She is handsy though. Fair warning.”

“And what’s she going to help us with exactly?”

“Contacting demons, of course. They’re bound to know what’s up. Especially with a little…persuasion.”

“Dude. We don’t need your friend to get us a demon. I can summon one right now.”

“Seriously?”

“Can’t everyone? I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

“Uhm. No. That’s not the most common of knowledge. Even among hunters.”

“Well. That’s ‘cause you guys are fucking shitty at your jobs.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Now. Where do you want to draw the devil’s trap?”

“The what?”

“Devil’s trap. You know. You draw, paint, fucking drip blood to make the sigil and it holds a demon. They can’t get out unless it’s broken.”

“Huh. Neat trick. Care to share with the class?”

“Got something to draw with?”

They wind up with a devil’s trap that’s made out of duct tape in the middle of a motel room. It’s not ideal, and definitely not soundproof, but Sam bets for some extra cash, anyone who’s not renting for the hour will be willing to keep their mouth shut.

“Got salt?” he asks Dean.

“Always.”

“More holy water?”

“Of course.”

“You ready to do this?”

“No, not really. But it’s not like there’s another choice.”

“Guess not.”

Sam knows the incantations by heart. Always carries the right herbs. It’s not long before a small blonde thing shows up, right in the middle.

“Sam?” she says hesitantly. “What’s going on here?”

“Meg,” he replies. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Dean Winchester, and he says he’s my brother. You happen to know anything about that?”

“No. Of course not. I don’t make a habit of associating with humans, never mind _hunters_.”

“So you know him then.”

“I know _of_ him. He’s…infamous…although, I can’t imagine why. He seems a little…delicate.”

“Is he my brother?”

“Azazel never gave me your family tree to study, Sam. So no, I don’t fucking know. Do your own research.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sam says, “and you know exactly what happens to demons that lie to me.”

Sam raises his hand and black smoke starts to come out of Meg’s throat. She coughs and chokes on her own essence until Dean elbows him in the ribs.

“Ow. What the fuck dude?”

“What the hell are you doing to her? You know there’s a person in there, right?”

“Well. Yeah. Of course there’s a girl in there. Demons need a host in order to communicate. And I’m not hurting her—if she’s still even alive—I’m just reminding Meg here that I’m fully capable of exorcising her…or destroying her completely if she continues to annoy me.”

“With your mind?” Dean asks him. His look is half-awe, half-absolute terror.

“At least there’s no mess to clean-up afterwards.”

“And the girl?”

“If she’s not dead, or hurt too bad already, she’ll make it out just fine.”

Sam releases his hand, allowing Meg’s demonic presence back into the girl’s body.

“Now, I’m only going to ask one more time nicely, Meg. _Is Dean my brother?_ ”

“Why don’t you ask Azazel? Or are you worried your powers won’t hold up against his?”

“Meg…”

“Fine. Dean’s your brother. And from what I can smell in this room, probably more than that. Looks like you two got freaky. Well, incest is always a classic,” she yawns in disinterest. “So, can I go now? I’ve got people to torture, hell to raise, so to speak.”

“Oh no. I’ve got a few more questions.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Always so needy, Sammy. Really. I could never figure out why Azazel liked you so much…if it were me, I definitely would have chosen Dean…at least he’s pretty to look at.”

Dean puffs up next to him until Sam stomps on his foot.

“Ow!”

“This isn’t a fucking beauty pageant. We’re doing an interrogation here. Get it together.”

“Alright, geez.”

Sam grinds his teeth, but forges on, “Why did he choose me over Dean?”

“I don’t know.”

Black smoke starts making its way out of her body again, and Sam lets her suffer for a moment before withdrawing his hold.

“Let’s try that again. Why did he choose me over Dean?”

“Dammit, Sam, I’m telling the truth on this one. I don’t fucking know. But I do know he wanted you to kill Dean. Which, by the way, why isn’t he dead?”

“Probably because there seemed to be a few things that Azazel left out of his 'saving me' story. Like that he started the fire, my dad didn’t try to kill me, and Dean’s my brother. Just to name a few.”

“Those are nothing, mere human worries in the scheme of things. Azazel wants _you_ to lead his army. He wants _you_ to be the face of the revolution.”

“And what if I decide I don’t want to?”

Meg shrugs, her delicate features turning into a sneer. “He’s not stupid. He’s got other kids out there. They don’t have as much training as you, and they aren’t as powerful—of course they’ve all had some demon blood, just not to the level that he fed you. So yeah. Azazel’s got backup plans in case you decide to defect. But think about it Sam—how long are you going to last without demon blood pumping through your veins? A few days? A week at the most, before you collapse?”

“I’ll manage,” he says, even though he knows it’s a lie. They both do. “Any final words, Meg?”

“Yeah. Fuck you, Winchester. Azazel gave you _everything_. He raised you, made you powerful…you could have the world at your fingertips, and you’re going to throw it away because you just got laid by your big brother? Well, you’re quite the knight in shining armor for humanity all of a sudden.”

Sam focuses hard, uses all of his energy to slowly draw Meg out of the girl’s body. She was rather helpful though, and Sam’s feeling a bit tired, he can already feel the blood trickling out his nose. So he goes easy, pushes her back to hell. The minute she leaves, the girl collapses on to the ground. Dean rushes over to her side immediately. Two fingers pressed against her neck, he takes her pulse and nods to Sam.

“She’s still alive.”

“And?”

“And we should call 9-1-1 and then book it out of here. I, for one don’t want to be caught here when she wakes up.”

“Good point.” Sam throws Dean his phone and trades places with his brother as Dean steps out to make the call.

They gather all of their equipment, not that there’s much, even between the two of them, and stash it in the Impala. They make it out just in time to see the ambulance coming from down the road.

“Think she’ll be alright?” Dean asks him.

“I dunno. If she wasn’t too damaged before—if Meg didn’t do anything with her body beyond the realm of normal human limits, that is—she should be fine. And I mean fine, in the ‘ _she’ll have PTSD, and most likely be in a locked psych ward for the rest of her life sort of fine’_ sort of way.”

“Huh. Well, that’s better than dead, I guess. Hey Sam. What happened to your eyes back there?”

“What about them?”

“Well… when you did whatever you did with that demon—“

“I exorcised her. Sent her back to hell. She’ll claw her way back out eventually though. Meg’s resourceful.”

“Well, your eyes turned yellow. Actually.” He takes another look at Sam. “They’re still yellow. Just like the demon’s. Is that a thing with you that I should know about?”

Sam’s never really thought about it. “I guess when I use my powers, they tend to turn. It’s not a big deal.”

“And bleeding out your nose? That normal too?”

“Yeah.”

Apparently Dean feels otherwise, because he lets out an unamused huff of air. “And what about the demon blood?”

“Meg’s right about that one. I can’t last long without it.”

“Well—I don’t have a handy supply for you here. And you shouldn’t be drinking it anyways. I mean, c’mon Sammy. Even you’ve got to know that drinking blood is wrong…”

“It never really occurred to me, Dean. It’s always been a normal part of my life. You grew up on whiskey, I grew up on demon blood. It’s not that different.”

Dean doesn’t disagree, but his mouth gets tight in response. He keeps driving until they hit a turning point. Canada or Oregon, those are their choices. They turn south.


	3. We've not yet lost all our grace, 3/4

  


**Three**

  
“What’s the endgame here?” he asks Sam after they’ve gotten past Tacoma. Sam watches the mile markers steadily decrease through the rain on the windshield.

“What do you mean?”

“Meg, she said something about you leading Azazel’s armies? If there’s a war coming, we need to know about it. I’ll need to alert Dad, the Roadhouse, everyone I can think of…”

Sam reaches over and places his hand on Dean’s leg. There’ll be time later to discuss tactics. Right now Sam’s more than ready to fuck again, and it’s not like they’re doing anything besides open road driving; just watching the movement of Dean’s lips has him hard in his jeans. Dean slaps his hand away.

“Ow.”

“Dude. Not cool.”

“What? It’s three in the morning. Don’t you think we should pull over? Maybe fuck off some of our energy in the back seat before we decide where we’re actually going?”

“Sam,” Dean says slowly, like he’s talking to an infant. “You’re my brother…”

“And?”

“And, the answer is ‘no’. We screwed because I thought you were a hooker, except, with my stellar luck, it turns out we’re related. So, no. We’re not fucking again. Discussion closed.”

“But you liked it? Right? It’s not because I was bad at it?”

“You were fine, Sam. It’s just brothers don’t really do that, you know?”

“No, I don’t. And if we can’t fuck, maybe I don’t want to be your brother. Maybe I liked how we were before.”

“When we were trying to kill each other?”

“Although amusing, not what I meant. And you didn’t stand a chance at killing me, by the way. But actually, I preferred you trying to teach me that I shouldn’t like it hard and fast. Even though I really, really do. I might just have to re-take that lesson…”

“I’m not fucking you again, will you let it rest?”

“What if I fucked you? Would that make you feel better?”

“No.”

Sam puts his hand back on Dean’s thigh. “I could still decide to kill you, go back to Azazel…”

Dean grits his teeth, but keeps both his hands on the steering wheel.

“You won’t.”

“Hm, and why’s that?”

“Because you’re a Winchester.”

“So you keep telling me. But we didn’t grow up together, now did we Dean? So what’s the problem with you pulling over and fucking me until I can’t see straight? Exchanging some fluid. It’s nothing we haven’t done before. You want me on your side? Taking a chance on humanity? Then give me one goddamn reason to _stay_. Just one.” He’s practically begging, but Sam doesn’t care. His world is in shambles, he doesn’t know up from down. What he needs is some comfort. Preferably from his older brother.

Dean glares at him, but swerves the Impala off to the side of the freeway. They’re on a dark stretch of road on I-5, where trees far outnumber streetlights. The rain is slamming down against the windshield; Sam’s not really sure how Dean could see in this downpour anyways.

The car comes to a halt, and Dean practically snarls, “Is this what you really want, Sammy? Is this what you need so you don’t goddamn kill everyone I know with your creepy psychic powers? Are you that desperate to get fucked by your big brother?”

It sounds bad, spiteful in Dean’s gravelly voice, but all that Sam can feel is the emptiness inside of him, waiting to be filled.

He juts out his chin, resolute. “Yes.”

“Fine,” Dean says, “Get in the back seat.”

When Dean joins him, it’s not like before. There’s no softness, no kissing, no intimacy. Instead, Dean strips Sam almost methodically, keeping his own clothes on. Takes off just enough in order to fuck Sam. It’s easier this time, taking Dean inside of him, now that Sam knows what to expect, but it’s not as good. It’s missing something, and Sam can’t put his finger on it, even though he still comes, panting into Dean’s hand.

“You good?” Dean asks him as he pulls out. It’s obvious from his hardness that he didn’t come, and that makes Sam growl. He wants them to be in this _together_.

“No, you didn’t come,” he says. “Let me blow you.”

“Look Sam. I’ve come twice already tonight, and I’m not really in the mood right now. We’ve got hundreds of miles between us and the Roadhouse where we’re meeting up with Dad to figure out what exactly is coming our way.”

“…We’re meeting Dad?” It’s the only thing Sam really registers.

“Yeah. I texted him after you exorcized that demon and told him we needed to meet up, that I had intel; he always answers when it’s news about the demon. Anyways, he said he’ll be at Harvelle’s in a day and a half. And Dad deserves to meet you. He’s spent so much of his life blaming both of us for your disappearance…”

“That’s great and all, but I’m not sure I’m ready, Dean. I’ve spent my whole life hating him. It’s not something I can just turn off in a split second. What would I even say to him?”

“Well. I think ‘Hi’ is a good start. But you’ve got a while to figure it out. The Roadhouse is in Nebraska, and even without stopping it’s a day away.”

It’s too hard for Sam to focus on Dean, or on the possibility of meeting Dad, because right then, Sam feels his hand start to twitch. Shit. He must have expended too much energy earlier between Dean and Meg. “I’ll need to eat before then,” he says quietly, finally pulling up his jeans and moving back to the front seat, once it’s clear that Dean really isn’t going to let Sam blow him. Dean follows his lead and restarts the car.

“Fine. I’m sure there’s a drive-thru somewhere in the next fifty miles or so.”

Sam fidgets looking down at his fingers before nervously scratching at the back of his head, until Dean snaps.

“What is it, Sam? You’re acting like a fucking meth addict over there.”

“It’s not that kind of eating. I mean, yes, I’ll need that too.” Sam’s stomach rumbles at the thought of real food. There should be some place to get a decent, green-leaf salad around here, even this early in the morning. “But I need blood to survive. Demon blood.”

“Look. Whatever your fucking freaky powers are, you’re still human, man. You’re still _my brother_ , and you don’t need anyone’s blood except your own.”

“Maybe that was true. Once. But not anymore.” He holds out his hand, showing Dean the fine tremor running through it. He might as well have a neuromuscular disorder. “See. That’s what happens when I use my powers and don’t replenish. And it gets worse. I start seeing things, muscle spasms; I could die.”

“Yeah well, newsflash kiddo. It’s called withdrawal. And I’ll be honest—withdrawal’s a bitch. In fact, it fucking sucks and it hurts like hell. But I wouldn’t wish being hooked on demon blood on my worst enemy. And you know what the best way to beat it is? Cold turkey.”

“What? How’s a dead bird going to help?”

Dean laughs, “You’re goddamn adorable, Sammy. Going cold turkey. It’s an expression. It means to stop completely.”

“So that’s your plan? Cut me off and hope I don’t die? Go fuck yourself, Dean.”

“Last I checked it was you who was begging for it, not me.” Dean shrugs. “Either way, there’s a bottle of whisky under your seat. I’d suggest you drink up. It’ll help dull the pain, at least for a while.”

\--

 

Sam’s completely and totally shitfaced by the time that Dean pulls into the parking lot of a run-of-the-mill, southern Idaho motel.

“C’mon, we’ve got to check in. And try not to open your mouth, you smell bad enough as it is.”

Luckily for Sam, Dean comes around and helps him to his feet. Sam never gave his body enough credit for standing up straight. It’s fucking hard work.

“The world’s spinning. I mean, of course the world is spinning. But I’m not supposed to _feel_ it spin. Right? That’s not normal, is it? I don’t think that’s normal.”

“For the amount of booze you’ve ingested? Definitely normal.”

“You’re short,” Sam says as he drapes his arm around Dean’s shoulders. His brother’s a good three inches lower to the ground than him. He vaguely wonders which parent Dean takes after.

“Excuse-me?”

“You’re short. You’re like my little-big-brother,” he says before exploding into laughter. Sam feels great. Except for the world spinning, and that gross feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Alright. You know what? Fuck it. You’re staying here.”

Sam hears a snap, and when he looks down, Dean’s handcuffed him to the car.

“Deannnnnn,” he whines. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately.

“Sit. Stay. No funny business. I’ll be right back,” he orders, before disappearing into the building.

There’s hardly any time to do more than puke on the cement before Dean returns with a key.

“Wow. You really can’t hold your liquor, can you?” Dean asks.

“Didn’t do much drinking growing up.”

“And that’s a good question right there. What _did_ you do growing up with a demon?” Dean asks, as he parks the car in front of a cheap room, un-cuffs Sam, and helps him stumble inside. Sam uses it as an excuse to grab every part of his brother’s body. Possibly his ass, multiple times.

“A lot of reading. Books. Big books. And killing things. With my mind. I could kill you right now if I wanted to,” he says, poking Dean in the forehead.

“Just lie down already,” Dean says, but Sam well and truly can’t move without Dean’s help.

“You got us a bed,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Dean. He misses. By at least five inches, dammit.

“And you need to sleep,” Dean replies, settling him on the bed before climbing in behind Sam, pulling him close.

“No more demon blood, ok? We’ll get you through this.”

“Promise?”

“You bet, little brother.”

“’m not little,” Sam complains, even as the world crashes around him.

\--

 

Sam wakes up in the middle of the night to his brother snoring next to him, a headache, and a bone-deep need for demon juice. He tries to slip out of Dean’s grasp, but the minute he tries, Dean’s hand encircles his wrist, his leg covering Sam’s own to hold him in place.

“Going someplace?”

“Dean, I need it. I’ll feel better if I just have a little bit more. I won’t take much, I promise—I’ll even exorcise the demon from its host afterward. I just need enough for the rest of the trip.”

“No.”

Sam forces Dean off him using his powers, but he was already weak before, and the whiskey still flooding his system doesn’t help. He collapses before he even gets to the door.

“Sam? C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get you back to bed.”

For being as short as Dean is, he’s strong. Sam’s picked up bridal style and brought back to the bed. Dean covers him with wet wash-cloths and gives him a trash can.

It doesn’t get better as the day wears on, only worse. Sam can feel a fever starting to seep through his skin. He tosses and turns, but luckily, Dean is there. He pours whiskey down Sam’s throat when the pain starts to kick in. He strips Sam of his shirt when he gets too hot; out of his pants, and finally his boxers until there’s nothing but Sam sweating on top of the comforters. Not even the cool towels that Dean’s covered his body with are soothing.

“Dean…’m too hot.”

For somewhere unknown, Dean pulls out a device and tells Sam to open his mouth. It’s plastic and metal, whatever it is, and Dean makes him hold it under his tongue until it beeps.

“104.5 Fahrenheit, Sam—if this goes much higher I’m going to have to take you to the hospital.”

“They can’t do anything for me there.”

“Well, I sure as hell can’t do anything for you here.”

“Hold my hand?”

Dean smiles down at him. “Yeah, Sammy. I can do that.”

At some point, Dean must have left, because Sam awakens to an empty room.

“Dean?”

There’s no answer. He tries to get up, only to find he’s been cuffed to the headboard.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath. But try as he might, he can’t get them off. It makes him anxious, nervous, that he’s stuck alone in a room.

And then he sees Azazel. Skulking in the corner.

“Well, Sam. I see your brother’s got you all tied up,” he says, eyes glinting dangerously. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Dean!” Sam yells. If there was any time Sam needed his brother, this would be it. He can’t fight Azazel naked and locked to a bed.

“Dean’s not coming. He’s otherwise preoccupied. You remember Alistair, right?”

Sam’s stomach drops at the thought of that demon touching his brother. “No,” Sam says. He’s only met Alistair once, but he’d made a lasting impression. Sam hadn’t known that people could bleed that much or scream that loudly. He hadn’t known about the almost scratchy sound that human skin makes when it’s peeled from the tissue underneath. He’d practically spewed his own guts out by the time Alistair was finished with his masterpiece in their living room. “No, don’t—I’ll do anything--”

“Too late. Should have thought of that before you decided to be a traitor, hm? Before you decided that fucking your big brother was more important than leading hell’s armies.”

“Really,” Sam sobs from the bed, “I’ll kill him myself, just don’t let Alistair do it.”

“Oh no, I think it’ll be good for you to see the aftermath. See exactly how pretty your brother is on the _inside_.”

“Dean,” Sam screams. “Dean.”

“He can’t hear you,” Azazel taunts. “In fact, I bet he’ll die wishing he’d never have met you.”

“No, Dean…please…please let me do it.”

“You had your chance to kill Dean, Sammy. He’s in Alistair’s talented hands now. And I’m sure he’s enjoying seeing exactly how soft your brother is, compared to his knives. But don’t worry. I won’t let Alistair play with _you_. Since I love you like my own, I’m giving you another chance to prove how loyal you are. But first, I want you to get out of your handcuffs.”

Sam pulls and yanks until his wrists are bleeding, and he’s gasping in pain.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Azazel goads. “You can do better than this. Think of how mad you’ll be when you see Alistair with Dean’s blood splattered on his face. That some of those individual cells might still be living, but that Dean—Dean is dead.”

He tries, over and over again, until he passes out from the pain.

This time when he wakes up, Dean is there, bandaging his wrists.

“Dean?” he asks disbelievingly. “How did you escape from Alistair?”

“Who?” Dean asks.

“Azazel was here. Said Alistair had you. That he was taking you apart, piece by piece for me to see.”

“Sam, I just popped out for a few minutes to the drug store. I picked up extra ice packs, a couple bottles of fever reducers, and some beer. Not a single salt line has been broken. I did come back to you having tried to tear your hands out of your cuffs though.”

“Azazel told me I had to. To be worth a second chance.”

“It was just a hallucination.”

“It felt real. I didn’t want you to die, Dean. I don’t want you to die.”

Dean takes his hand and runs it down Sam’s body. He leans forward and presses his lips against Sam’s. Somehow, the heat of his body makes Sam’s feel cooler. More tolerable.

“Do I feel real, now, Sammy?”

“I want you to be.”

“Oh yeah?”

Sam wants to say something sexy, something that’ll make his brother want him, but instead, he starts shaking.

“Hey. Stay with me. Are you ok?”

“Keep touching me.”

“I’m not goddamn fucking you while you’re having a seizure. Out of the question.”

“No…not that. Just, skin to skin. It feels better.”

Dean still makes him swallow six ibuprofen first, which seems like a lot, but Dean tells him it’s okay. Two isn’t going to cut it. Sam opens his mouth and lets pills go down. Trusts that his brother isn’t trying to kill him, this time. After chugging a beer, Dean finally strips and covers Sam’s body with his own, and the sheer pressure of Dean soothes through his muscles, deep into his soul.

\--

Sam’s fever is gone when he awakens to the sound of groaning and the slide of skin on skin, as well as a slight rocking of the bed. For a moment, Sam’s furious that Dean has someone in their bed while he’s lying there, practically half-dead. He opens his eyes enough to see that the T.V. is on (it’s a poor quality porn), and that Dean has one hand locked with Sam’s sweaty palm while the other is busy fisting his dick. He watches as Dean’s hand speeds up, as his dick gets wetter with every pass. And then Sam’s had enough of watching. Having a front row seat is great and all, but it definitely doesn’t compare to having Dean’s dick down his throat.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, squeezing his hand lightly. His voice is rough, even to his own ears.

“Oh. Fuck. Uh…dude, I’m sorry. I just...I thought you were still out. You haven’t moved for almost two days…” Dean tries to pull away and cover himself but Sam rolls over until he’s straddling Dean’s legs.

“Two, huh? Well, I do have a large appetite,” he says, leaning down to kiss Dean on the mouth.

Dean recoils quickly. “Dude. You taste like ass. And before you say it, no, not the good kind. You don’t smell much better, either.”

“But…”

“No buts. You. In the shower, now.”

“Only if you come.”

Dean makes a show of huffing, but he turns off the porn and gets out of bed.

“Fine, Sasquatch. In we go.”

The water pressure sucks, and it’s really too small of a shower for even one of them, never mind the both of them, but they make it work. Sam drops to his knees and lets Dean wash his hair as he blows him. Somehow Dean manages to keep the soap out of his mouth, he’s clearly even more talented that Sam had thought. Sam relaxes into the way Dean’s hands massage his scalp, and he drifts off to the way Dean’s cock feels in his mouth, bumping against his soft palate. Only a few days ago, Sam had thought he’d never get to see, to taste Dean again. It makes Sam want to spend the rest of his life right here at Dean’s feet. Sucking him down while Dean takes care of him. Right before Dean comes, he pulls out, letting his come splash on Sam’s face, warmer than the water. Once his legs have steadied, Dean half washes his jizz off, half rubs it in to Sam’s skin. He lets Dean scrub every part of his body until he’s clean, both inside and out. When they’re done, he gets Dean hard again, and encourages him to fuck him. Sam comes with both hands holding his body against the wet tile and Dean pressed against his back, one hand wrapped possessively around Sam’s stomach. This is definitely worth everything he’s given up, no matter what Azazel had said.

After they’re done, dried off and with clothes on (much to Sam’s dismay), Dean’s back to business as usual.

“We’ve really got to hit the road, Sammy. Dad’s been waiting for two days already and he’s not the most patient of types.”

“Why do we have to see him again?”

“We need a way to kill the yellow-eyed demon—“

“Azazel,” Sam corrects him.

“Whatever. We need to know how to gank that son-of-a-bitch before he recruits someone else to take your place.”

“If you just let me drink some demon blood—“ He’s not going to lie. It might not be a biological necessity right now, but his thoughts are centered on it. How the tang of copper and rich texture could dance across his tongue, could be his to savor.

“Out of the question, Sam. You know that. We got you off this time, but it wasn’t easy. A few times, I wasn’t sure that you were going to make it. Hell, you might not, next time.”

“Fine,” Sam agrees, just so they won’t argue. He has no plans of abstaining permanently, not that he’s telling Dean that. Especially not right now. “Well, how are we going to kill him then? He’s locked himself into his meat suit, so we can’t exorcise him, even if I did summon him.”

“I don’t know. But that’s exactly why we need Dad. He’s spent eighteen years chasing this thing. _Azazel_ ,” Dean says, before Sam can correct him again. “And the last time we talked it sounded like he had a solid lead…”

“What about us? What are we going to tell Dad?” Sam waves his hand back and forth between the two of them, making it clear what he means by the term _us_.

“Nothing, dumbass. Dad would kill me if he found out I screwed you, whether I knew you were my brother or not.”

Sam huffs.

“Look. There are billions of other people out there in the world that you don’t have to have a secret relationship with. You don’t have to be with me.”

“I don’t _want_ them.”

“Alright then. God knows for some fucked up reason, I can’t seem to say no when you ask for my dick. But this stays between you and me. Only when I say so, and you’ll have to trust me on that one, Sam. Can you do that?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s hit the road.”

They make a few stops. Grab food, coffee (a fucking disgusting drink that Dean likes that Sam only agrees to if there’s at least a few scoops of sugar in it), and clothes at a thrift shop. Sam picks out a shirt with a dog on it and a white button-down with flowers.

Dean cringes.

“I like plants and animals, Dean. There’s nothing wrong with my clothing choice reflecting that.”

Dean holds up a grey tee-shirt and a boring, button-down plaid.

“Eh? How about these? They’re nice. Manly.”

“No.” Sam steadfastly refuses Dean’s poor taste in clothing.

Dean mutters what sounds suspiciously like, “You really are gay, huh?” on their way out.

 


	4. We've not yet lost all our grace, 4/4

  


**Four**

  
They continue their trek east down I-84 until Dean’s phone rings outside of Cheyenne.

“Sam, could you get that?”

Sam’s never answered a phone in his goddamn life.

“How?” he asks.

“Jesus Christ. Give it here.”

“No, just tell me how it works,” Sam says. He fucking hates it when Dean treats him like a kid. He might not have grown up with this stuff, but he’s eighteen, dammit, not five. If Dean would only tell him which button to push, it wouldn’t be a problem. They wind up arguing for long enough that eventually it stops ringing and goes to voicemail, making the whole point moot, so Sam reluctantly hands over the phone.

Dean turns it on speaker and presses in his password. 5-2-8-3. Sam’s birthday. He’s about to say something when Dean cuts him off, “Not now, Sam. I need to listen to this.”

“Hey, Dean, it’s Ellen,” a woman’s voice comes over the phone. It’s got a hint of an accent and is fairly low pitched, sounding old enough that Sam’s pretty sure this isn’t a purely social call. “I know you’re on your way out here, but I think you might want to drive a little faster. Your Daddy was sitting here at the bar when he collapsed out of the blue. The EMTs came as soon as they could—but we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere here. When I asked they said it was most likely a heart attack or a stroke. Anyways, they took him to the Heart Institute, out in Lincoln. I’m leaving the bar with Jo in charge, and heading there myself right now. I gave them your phone number, so if anything happens, they’ll call you first. Well. Hope you’re not too far out. That’s all. Talk to you soon.”

For a moment it’s silent. And then Dean says, “Shit.”

“Yeah…” Sam doesn’t really know what to say, so he puts his hand on Dean’s thigh.

“Not now, Sam.”

“Yes, now. Dean. This is what _families_ do right? They support each other.”

“And what about your other family? You think your demon pal had something do with this? People just don’t drop dead.”

Sam wants to point out that yes, in fact, people do exactly that. All the time. But Dean’s not in the mood to listen. There’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do that will make Dean feel better, so he settles for not saying anything.

Dean steps on the gas, harder than usual, and soon the foothills of the Rockies are left behind, replaced with prairie; fields of corn and sunflowers on every side. It should feel like home. Instead, it’s stifling. Sam can’t wait to get somewhere. Anywhere.

When they eventually pull into the hospital parking garage, Dean can’t seem to move. All these miles travelled, and Dean’s not getting out of the car.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam encourages. He doesn’t know much about humans, but it’s clear that his brother needs to go inside and see their father.

“What if something horrible has happened—what if he can’t move, or he can’t speak for the rest of his life? I don’t want to see him like that. I don’t know if I can keep it together for all of us. I mean, I can barely take care of myself. I failed at taking care of you—I goddamn gave you to stranger. How can I take care of him?”

“You were four, Dean. You aren’t responsible for that. I don’t blame you for that. I’m sure, deep down, Dad doesn’t blame you for that either. And he needs you right now. He’ll need you to be strong no matter what.”

“We still got whiskey?” Dean asks, but Sam shakes his head.

“I drank the whole bottle.”

“Just the one?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then there should a second stashed under your seat.”

Huh. Seems that addiction runs in the family. Thinking of Dean slaking his own need makes Sam crave the rush even more than usual. Whiskey just won’t cut it for him. He needs something thicker, stronger. Sam’s mouth waters at the thought of not alcohol, but demon blood sliding down his throat. Sam reaches underneath his seat and pulls out the whiskey, handing it to his brother.

“Thanks,” Dean says, throwing back his neck to take a long drink. He downs a quarter of the bottle without flinching.

“Time to go meet Dad, Sammy,” Dean says after another swallow. Sam’s surprised his brother can still stand. He’d be on the ground by now.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Finding their Dad in the hospital isn’t as easy as it would appear, because Dean’s I.D. doesn’t say Winchester, and Sam doesn’t have any sort of identification at all. Eventually, Dean flirts his way into getting information out of a pretty nurse (with Sam’s hand in his back pocket, because Dean is _his_ , dammit), who lets it slip that John’s on the fourth floor. Room 402.

They get out of the elevator (Dean’s not quite steady enough for the stairs), only to find a swarm of people gathered around the room where their father’s supposed to be.

“No. No, no, no,” Dean yells. He tries to push past all the people in lab coats and the red cart that’s sitting right outside.

“Sir. You need to stay back.”

“Someone hold this guy down.”

“Get this lunatic out of here.”

Everyone’s shouting, and Dean’s still fighting, screaming, “That’s my dad in there. That’s my _dad_!”

  
It takes two security guards to hold Dean back, although they let him watch as the doctors and nurses take turns pumping on their father’s chest in between shocking him with paddles, and trying to force air down his throat with some sort of bag and mask contraption. It doesn’t work; nothing works. Sam stays silently at his side. He wants to touch Dean, to reassure him, but judging by Dean’s mood, he’s more likely to end up with a black eye.

“Anyone else got any ideas?” one of the guys in a lab coat says. For as many damn professionals are standing around, no one says any word. Dead silence.

“Alright. I’m calling it. Time of death, 17:52.” On the way out, the man with glasses standing the closest to their father stops to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry son, we did all we could.”

Dean snarls something about it not being enough before he goes in and looks at their Dad’s body. His hospital gown’s ripped off, his skin is already starting to grey. There are two dog tags on a chain around his neck that Dean unhooks gently before sliding them into his jacket.

“Sam?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“Can I have a moment alone?”

“Sure, Dean. Whatever you need.”

Sam acquiesces because he knows that Dean isn’t going anywhere, and Sam doesn’t know the man anyways. He can see bits of Dean, bits of himself in the man’s bone structure, but his eyes are already closed. Sam wonders what color they had been. What kind of music he had listened to, what kind of food he had liked to eat. Sam will have to ask Dean. But not today. Not when the pain is still fresh and written across his brother’s face.

Unsure of what to do, Sam wanders through the halls until he’s found his way down several flights of stairs and out of the building entirely. The Nebraska sun feels pleasant on his face; Sam was never meant for the cold wet of the Northwest. This is as close to home, as close to Kansas as he’s ever been, and Sam, surprisingly, finds himself wanting to drive there. He wonders if Dean’s ever stopped to pass by the house where he grew up; where Sam was born.

He meanders aross the grounds, almost aimlessly, until he remembers that for the first time in about a week, he’s alone. Dean’s not watching him. Dean’s not at his side. Dean will never know if Sam grabs a snack while he’s out here. He roots around in his pockets and comes up with a sharpie. That’ll work. Next—a deserted space—check.

Sam quickly draws a devil’s trap, burns a few herbs from his jean’s pocket and summons a demon. Not a powerful one like Meg—he doesn’t need information. All Sam needs is blood.

It takes less than a minute for a demon to appear.

“Winchester,” it snarls when it sees him. “Azazel’s looking for you, and he’s going to be pissed when he gets his hands on your scrawny body.”

“Funny,” Sam says. “You see, I don’t think that’s going to happen, and here’s why: for all that my brother wants me to be human—I’m fine just the way I am. That means, I’ve got no qualms killing you, or the meat suit you’re wearing.”

Sam slashes out with a knife, drawing a line of red from the demon’s forearm. It backs up until it’s pressed against the edge of the circle, as far as the trap will allow.

“Look,” it starts to beg, “I won’t tell him I saw you. Not a word. Just take what you need and let me go.”

“We’ll see,” Sam says, as he grasps forcefully on to the demon’s arm where blood is oozing out of its skin. He puts the limb to his mouth and the blood slides down his throat, lighting a fire in his veins. Activating his latent power and making him feel strong. Like himself, not the weak human that he’s been since he’s met Dean. Not that he regrets it of course, not at all. But he’s going to be damned if he’ll let Dean talk him out of giving this up again.

Sam needs demon blood. More than that. Sam _wants_ to drink it. It might be an addiction, a disease, sure. He recognizes that. But it’s also part of Sam, one that’s integral to his identity. Something he’s not willing to give up. Even for his brother.

Once he’s drank enough that his stomach has expanded to a rather uncomfortable level, Sam wipes the blood off his mouth. He stretches his fingers, and the demon chokes on the black smoke that’s funneling out of its mouth.

“So,” he says, watching the demon cower in its vessel, trying to make itself small. “What exactly should I do with you?”

Sam hasn’t felt this good since Dean fucked him back at the motel. He’s high off the rush, practically floating. He feels smarter. Sharper too. And the world—all of a sudden it’s gotten brighter. Sam can practically feel it pulse with energy. “God. You taste _delicious_. If I didn’t have to worry about my brother, I’d just keep you in the trunk until I drained you completely.”

The demon whimpers, and Sam kicks it with his foot. “Get up you pathetic son of a bitch.”

It stands and Sam grabs onto its neck, “You know anything that’s worth saving your miserable life?”

“Yes. Yes,” it croaks out, and Sam makes a slash in its neck and leans in to take another long lick. He’s full but that doesn’t matter. He can’t help himself. It’s like putting a starving man at a buffet. Sam’s going to make himself sick and he doesn’t even care. It tastes too damn good to stop.

This time when he asks, his mouth is bright red, demon blood smeared sloppily across his face. Sam licks his lips. “Oh yeah? It better be good.”

The demon pushes him off, struggling to speak after it’s lost so much of its host’s blood.

“Azazel’s not only looking for you,” it spits out.

“Oh?”

“He’s looking for something else…something that will help him gather the rest of his armies from hell.”

“Which is what? A talisman?”

“No, stupid. It’s a gun.”

“A gun? Are you serious? Do you know how many fucking guns there are in the United States? I thought you were giving me something useful here.”

He makes a matching slash in the demon’s forearm this time around. Sam drinks slowly now, just enjoying the thickness of blood on his tongue. He swishes it around in his mouth like he’s wine tasting. The demon hasn’t been in this host very long; the blood still has a very human flavor to it. Barely an aftertaste of sulfur.

“Fine. But you didn’t hear it from me, ok? Azazel’s looking for a specific gun. A Colt. And it’s rumored to be able to open the gates of hell.”

“The final plan.”

“Oh no. Releasing hell—that’s just the beginning. There are things worse than demons caged in the depths of the pit.”

“Like what?”

“You know,” the demon says sarcastically while attempting to put pressure on its neck, “I never really got around to asking. Actually. I don’t even _want_ to know what kind of monsters they’re housing down there. You’ll have to find that one out yourself.”

“Hm. You’re going to play it that way, then?” Sam says. Well. It’s still daylight, and it’s high time he finished this anyways. He wipes all the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“C’mon, man. I told you everything I know.”

“Well. That clearly wasn’t enough, now was it?”

Sam narrows his eyes, raises his hand, and it’s just as easy as it’s always been. He doesn’t send the demon packing, he extinguishes it from the inside out. Squashing every last black spark until not even an ember of its existence remains. It’s a quicker death than Azazel would have given it.

Leaning down, Sam carefully takes the pulse of its host. It’s a male, not much older than him, Sam guesses. He’s thankful when no heartbeat floats to his fingers; the guy’s dead already. Saves him the trouble of figuring out what to do. Anyways, it’s time to get back to Dean. He leaves the body lying on the ground, watching as the cement underneath it turns red with blood. That’s his signal to leave; someone else will find the dead bastard soon enough.

Sam stops at the bathroom on the way back up. Washes his hands, his face. Makes sure there isn’t any congealed blood in his hair. He even stops for a grape soda, cleansing his mouth of the coppery tang that had lingered on his tongue.

Once he gets inside, Sam notices that there’s a woman sitting next to Dean. She’s about his dad’s age, with dark blonde hair. It must have been the lady—Ellen—who had called Dean on his phone. Owner of the hunter’s bar.

Sam clears his throat to get their attention.

“Uh, hey guys,” he says, kind of awkwardly.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice harsh. He’s obviously been crying, although his eyes are now dry. Only the redness gives it away. “Meet Ellen. Ellen, this is Sam. He’s my br—he’s a friend. And a fellow hunter. We’re working together.”

Ellen stands up and wraps Sam in tight hug, even though they’ve never met before. It takes a moment before his arms respond and he hugs her back. She’s warm and soft, and Sam practically melts into her touch once he relaxes. He wonders if this is what hugging Mom would have felt like. Dean gives a half-smile from where he’s slumped in the hospital chair.

“Anybody Dean speaks this highly of is family. Alright?”

“Thanks,” Sam says. He doesn’t like people that often, but he gets the feeling that Ellen’s one of the good ones. “And thanks for taking care of Dean. I know it’s meant a lot to him, and it definitely means a lot to me, ma’am.”

“Well, he needed a mother, some good home cooking, and a real bed to sleep in from time to time. Still does.”

Sam nods. He’s sure Dean had needed all of that and then some. But Dean’s got Sam now, and after they’ve stopped Azazel, Sam fully plans on making Dean settle down. They’ll get a house somewhere in the south where it’s warm, Florida maybe. Sam likes oranges and the ocean. He’s also always wanted a dog…

“So what’s the plan?” he asks.

“We’re gonna give Dad a hunter’s funeral out at the Roadhouse. After that. I don’t know? Hit the road, I guess.”

“You boys should stay awhile. I’ve got beds for the both of you, and everyone minds their own business for the most part. ”

“That sounds lovely, Ellen,” Sam says genuinely. He’s still feeling pleasantly buzzed from the demon blood, and he should last a while if he’s not using his powers too quickly. He won’t be able to feed every day, sure. But once a week? That should definitely be do-able. No one will miss a demon here or there. “We could definitely use a day or two of rest, couldn’t we, Dean?”

\--

 

They burn John Winchester that night, him and Dean, Ellen and her daughter Jo, and a couple of older hunters named Bobby and Rufus who don’t take to Sam quite as quickly as Ellen.

“Where are you from, boy?” Bobby asks him gruffly. The smell of burning flesh hangs acridly in the air as they stand around, watching Sam and Dean’s dad go up in flames.

Sam reaches out to shake the man’s hand. “Samuel Wesson, pleasure to meet you,” he says. He and Dean agreed upon that name on the drive over. They can’t both be Winchesters. At least for the time being. “And I’m from Kansas.”

“Just like Dean. Huh. Small world, ain’t it. So—how’d you two meet?”

“A bar,” Dean chimes in, sliding behind Sam and putting a hand in his back pocket. No one here knows they’re brothers. No one besides Sam and Dean and a few demons who aren’t long for this world will ever know. Sam likes it. The fact that they have a secret—a dirty secret—just the two of them. Something even more than blood to bind them together.

“And Sam here just happened to be a hunter?” Bobby questions, his eyes narrowing.

Sam tries to smile placatingly. “My family had a run-in with a demon when I was a kid. Ever since then, I’ve made it a point to learn everything I could about those sons-of-bitches. Anyways, once I saw that Dean had a salt line in his room—well, it was kind of like we were meant to be. Since then, I’ve been helping Dean track the demon that killed his mother.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you do that?” Bobby’s clearly testing him. Luckily Sam has all the answers.

“Omens: electrical storms, dead animals, drops in the weather. Those sort of things.”

“And what do you plan on doing when you find it?”

“I plan on making the bastard pay for everything he did to Dean’s family. And then exorcising it, of course.” (He’s not. Sam’s going to destroy every last lying vapor of demon smoke that holds the fabric of Azazel’s being together.)

Dean squeezes his ass through his pocket and leans in to his chest. Sam slings his arm around his brother.

“Any other questions?”

“Nope. But Dean’s like family to all of us. And if you do anything at all to hurt him…”

Dean gripes from beside him, “Bobby, I’m a grown ass man, I can take care of myself. God. You’re fucking embarrassing me here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says, knocking back a drink from his flask before handing it to Dean, who also takes a swig, passing it on down the line, until everyone there’s had a gulp or two. Or five.

“You’ll kick my ass? Got it. And I appreciate the sentiment,” Sam says with a smile.

“Glad you see it my way, Sam. And Dean? You need anything, you call,” Bobby says, pulling down his hat and walking off muttering something about ‘idjits’.

“It’s been a long day,” Sam says to Dean as the embers finally die down, “You ready to turn in?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Alright then. Everyone—I’d like to make a toast. To John Winchester. A man who did the best he could for his family, and a damn fine hunter. He raised one of the best men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting right here. And I wish only that he could have lived long enough for me to meet him. To John Winchester, may he rest in peace.”

Everyone raises their glasses. “To John Winchester.”

This time around, when Sam grabs Dean by the hand and leads him out of the crowd, Dean doesn’t put up a fight. He follows Sam, obediently and willingly. It’s a version of Dean that Sam could come to truly love.

Once they get inside their room (Ellen had given them the one with the biggest bed, but it’s still only a queen, and not really large enough), Sam locks the door. He slides his hands into Dean’s jacket and pushes it down until it lies crumpled on the floor. His hands move all over Dean’s body—undoing buttons, pushing on sweat soaked cotton until Dean’s naked in front of him.

His thumbs trace over Dean’s nipples, encouraging them to harden before taking Dean’s cock in his hand and jacking it slowly.

“Hey, Dean. Let me take care of you this time, okay?”

Dean gives his consent through a nod and Sam pushes him backwards until his knees catch on the bed and he falls down, both his mouth and his legs parted.

It’s all Sam can do to get out of his clothes as fast as possible, only stopping to get the bottle of lube he bought back at the last gas station.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells Dean.

Dean spreads his legs in response, welcoming Sam into his body—but Sam’s not falling for that. Dean wants something physically painful to take away how he’s feeling on the inside, and Sam’s not giving in to that. He refuses to use his dick to hurt Dean.

He noses softly into Dean’s neck, licking at the artery that pulses beneath him.

“Thought you didn’t like it up the ass, hmm?” he asks softly.

“I want it tonight,” Dean responds, but Sam still doesn’t buy it.

“No.”

“No? I’m offering you a chance to stick your dick in me and you say _no_. There isn’t a person in the fine state of Nebraska who wouldn’t want to fuck me.”

“I like your dick in me. What can I say?”

And Sam does like Dean’s cock. He really does. He also plans on having Dean back in this position—and soon—but now’s not the time. Sam will have Dean begging for it before he lets him take his cock. He’s not going to let Dean have it because he wants Sam to hurt him. No way.

“Please fuck me,” Dean says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Later,” Sam promises, pressing kisses down the bones of Dean’s sternum, over the soft skin of his stomach, and the wiry hair of his happy trail until he arrives at Dean’s cock. He licks it, bottom to top before sucking on just the head.

Sam loves Dean like this—needy for Sam’s touch, for Sam to bring him pleasure. It’s heady, just as good as the high he gets from demon blood but in a different way. Sam’s just as addicted to Dean strung out as he is to demon juice coursing through his veins. They both give him a sense of power.

He relaxes into the strong smell of salt and testosterone as he lets Dean fuck his mouth until the taste of pre-come overwhelms his taste buds. Sam pulls off with a pop.

“Gonna ride you tonight, Dean. Gonna make you feel good.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees from beneath him.

Sam stops to slick up Dean’s cock and stick two fingers inside of himself, unceremoniously, not taking nearly enough time to prep. He lines them up and sinks down, helped by Dean making small thrusts, pushing himself deeper inside Sam until it’s impossible for either of them to get any closer.

“Love the way you feel,” Sam says as he uses his knees to rock forward. “So good. So fucking perfect inside of me.”

Dean’s hands lock around Sam’s hips, encouraging him to move faster, and soon, Sam’s got a hand on his own cock, stripping it at the brutal pace in which he’s riding his brother.

“Fuck yeah, Dean,” Sam starts to say, before Dean brings a hand up to his mouth.

“Quiet now, little brother. It’s not nice to wake up those who have been so kind as to give us a bed.”

“Jerk.” It doesn’t stop Sam from moving any slower, his balls slapping loudly against Dean’s cock.

“Bitch,” Dean responds.

It doesn’t take them long—a few more thrusts of their hips, a few more strokes of Sam’s hand until they’re both coming together—quiet panting in a silent household.

Sam pulls himself off Dean before his brother becomes too sensitive, curling up underneath his arms.

“I think I’m fucked-up,” is what Dean whispers in his ear just as he’s about to fall asleep. “I could have told them we were brothers, but instead, I wanted you. I wanted to fuck you, and you’re my little brother. Dad’s dead, and I’m upstairs fucking you, Sammy. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Sam reaches back and rubs circles into Dean’s hips. “Hey. I want it too. And if that makes us both fucked up—I’m fine with it. I like you—you like me. No one else knows. It’s our secret to keep, Dean.”

“You really want me that much? That you’d rather no one know we’re brothers?” Dean asks.

“ _We know_. That’s what matters. And I want all of you. I want to be brothers as much as I want to have sex. I want to fight, and to fuck, and to be crazy mad in love until maybe someday, we get a small house together where I can have a garden, and we can sit outside with nothing more to do than tan our soft stomachs and watch the grass grow.”

“Mmm, that sounds good.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, it’s you and me against the world. We drive that muscle car of yours until we find that yellow-eyed demon who stole our brotherhood from us and we kill him, using any means we’ve got.”

Sam doesn’t mention how it’s going to go down. How it’s always had to go down. It’ll be him against the demon—he doesn’t plan on letting Dean anywhere near Azazel. He’ll keep his blood drinking a secret from Dean—he has to—in order to keep his brother safe. And he’ll use the intel on the Colt to occupy Dean while he regains his strength.

“Tomorrow we should go through Dad’s journal,” Dean says. “See if we can’t find any leads.”

“After that it’s you and me and the open road,” Sam responds. To his surprise, he’s actually looking forward to all the time he’s going to spend with Dean. Getting to really know him. Like they were never separated to begin with.

“The Eagles best-hits playing and my brother by my side. Ain’t nowhere I’d rather be,” Dean says, his voice softer now, edging on sleep.

Sam’s never said a prayer before. But tonight, of all nights, it seems applicable. In case someone happens to be listening.

“Amen.”

 

 

THE END

 

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